AN: We've done it kids, we finished the Intros. They've taken too long to write. But, on the bright side, I've gotten a hang of writing these characters enough that the Reapings will be a breeze.

These are all in a somewhat tentative order of when they happened through the day, hence Cerium's oddly-placed section between the serious ones. Also, a new poll's up ; poll results on the previous will be posted on the blog.

The Tributes this chapter are: Vulca, Flynn, Animal, Azrael, Cerium, and Hastiin. Also, warning: incredibly irritating teen girl, asshole step-dads, self-harm, suicide, angst, vandalism, whipping, dead people…Yeah, I dunno what else I should warn about.

Edit: just fixing a few little details I missed, whoops


Intros: Day Of (Reaping)


Vulca Spark, 18, District 3

A teen girl was sleeping soundly in her plush bed, face buried in her fluffed pillows. Her long, dark hair was fanned around her, contrastingly starkly with the blankets and linens.

She looked peaceful in sleep. Her face was smooth, soft lips opened slightly as she breathed deeply. With her high cheekbones, thin eyebrows, and long lashes, she held an aristocratic air. Akin to that of a princess.

The peaceful image was shattered thoroughly when the girl was awakened roughly by a gruff, male voice.

"Vulca, get the hell up—and don't you dare try and go back asleep!" bellowed Edmund Spark as he roughly slammed his step-daughter's door open, sticking his head in her room.

The girl—Vulca—gave an irritated groan that sounded akin to that of a cat who got its tail trod on.

"What. Ever!" she spit furiously, violently taking up one of her many pillows and shoving it roughly over her head to block out the bastard's voice.

"Don't you ignore me, young lady!" the man demanded, voice rising. "Get up, or else we'll be late for the Reaping—like last year!"

"Ugh! Shut! Up!" Vulca crowed, screeching each syllable. She turned slightly around in her bed, chucking the pillow she was using previously at her step-father. "You're not my real dad!"

The man stood there, sneer on his face, going red in rage. He looked ready to march over and bodily drag the girl out of her room. However, a woman stuck her head into the room to diffuse the situation just in time, before the two could impart extreme bodily harm to each other.

"Vulca, honey, don't argue. Get up," stated Remilia Spark sternly, lips pursed. "And, Ed? Calm down. Yelling and losing your temper has never helped with Vulca before, and it won't help now."

The brunette man blinked down at the pretty woman, before his face broke out into the penchant fake smile he always gave his wife. "Of course, dear," he said, voice calm and sickingly sweet. "I just don't want my little girls to get punished for missing the Reaping."

Vulca gave a snort, glaring furiously at the man. She wished her mother hadn't been stupid enough to marry the asshole. It was pretty obvious that Edmund Spark despised her and her sister Vanessa. Hell, he was so obviously fake, it was a wonder that her wonderful mother didn't notice.

The bastard never gave her enough credit, but she knows. She knows of his little ploy, to steal her mother's inheritance. He could talk circles around Remilia with his honeyed tongue, but so long as her daughters were there, they wouldn't let him get away with it. Not even him taking up the Spark name had won him a co-signing from her mother.

Vulca slowly sat up in her bed, giving a low growl in her throat. "Get out so I can get changed," she ordered haughtily to her step-father, upturned nose angled up in the air, giving him a sharp glare.

"Will do, princess," the man replied, obviously sarcastic. He moved to leave her room, shooting her one last look of loathing, before shutting the door.

Ugh, she wished her real dad was still alive…He always treated his family right—his entire family, not just his wife. He was there every step of the way, always encouraging and showering them in love and presents.

Her dad had always told her that she was a "Special girl, well worth waiting for" because her birth was 3 weeks late. He was honest like that. But then he died when she was 10, and her mother threw herself at the first 'nice' man, to help numb the pain.

Too bad that 'nice' man was Edmund.

Vulca gave a scoff as she slowly peeled off her pajamas. "God, I can't wait to win the Games. Then, I can make sure that good-for-nothing never nears us again…"

Vulca gave a smirk of satisfaction at the thought. Her countenance brightened, as she realized that today was the Reaping—her chance.

She could do it. She was 17, charming, attractive. With all her talents, she could, in fact, win the Hunger Games.

After all, how hard could it be?

Obviously, the previous Tributes from District Three weren't trying hard enough. It was pitiful, how a majority went and died in the Bloodbath.

But she could do it. People would be scrambling over themselves to sponsor her. She'd become a favorite, hunt down the competition with the trained and strong Tributes, and win.

And then, when she won, she could make Three a Career District. Just like Riyo Sato and Festus Marsh with Two and Four. District Three was sandwiched between them, and they were a richer District, so it could happen.

"Honestly," she thought with an imperious sniff, "Three can surpass Four, with a push. I'm, like, so much prettier than Mags."

Vulca smoothed down the front of her short, red dress. Then, she twirled around, her hair fanning around her. She examined her body from every angle, a smirk twisting the features of her pretty face into something ugly.

"Guys will be clamoring over themselves to ally with me," she noted arrogantly, giving a giggle that sounded akin to a sharp object scratching painfully across a pane of glass.

"Hang on, District Three. Your new Victor will be taking the stage, soon!"


Flynn Caltier, 15, District 7

Flynn woke up by a cacophony of sounds in her room. Slowly, she took time to properly awaken, before she would be forced into some sort of mess by her sister.

Quietly, the young girl observed her 21 year old sister tear through their shared closet like a cyclone. Davita cursed and spoke loudly, yelling towards their bedroom door—which was propped open widely—asking their mother for assistance in something.

"Maaaaaaa, I can't find my Reaping dress!" Davita howled, causing Flynn to discreetly cover her ears.

The younger girl took a quick look at the clock in their room. For whatever reason, Davita was actually awake early. And getting ready for the Reaping, if her yelling was anything to go by.

Davita was way past the Reaping age, so then why…? Ah, it's probably a boy. It explains why Davita's wearing her newest pair of underwear, as well.

Flynn cursed her intelligent, observant nature, at this moment. Clearly imagining her older sister taking her clothes off to flaunt her underwear to a man was something no sibling should ever imagine. It was scarring.

So Flynn merely feigned sleep, using her ears to figure out when it would be a safe time to 'properly' wake up. Sometimes it was good that she was naturally stuck in her sibling's shadows, always quiet and unnoticed, because she could carefully get out of a lot of awkward situations.

And get extra rest. Rest was good.

Aryan Caltier shuffled into her daughter's room, asking what was wrong. She helped her eldest find her Reaping dress, shuffling around in the closet.

The younger girl managed to pick up her mother saying that she was going to find her Reaping dress, as well. Flynn gave a small grin. Good; she didn't know where in the world it was. Davita took over most of the closet, so it was probably buried deep within the labyrinth of clothing.

Her mother muttered something about getting dressed and making breakfast, and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her. So, all Flynn needed to worry over was getting acceptably ready for the day.

She never got overtly invested in her looks, so she never took too long. She probably had a good hour until she should wake up to get ready But that gave her less time to meet up with her friends, even if she got more sleep. Hm, decisions, decisions…

Flynn suddenly picked up loud noises from the room next door, through the thin walls. It seems like the twins are awake, because of all the noise their older sister had been making.

Well, there goes her chance of getting extra shut-eye. Padraig and Heather are balls of energy, and like to 'check up on their precious little sister'. Aka: the duo enjoyed annoying the hell out of her, and rarely let her have any peace and quiet.

Where oh where had she gone wrong, when it came to the twins? When she was a baby, they'd been kicked out of their own room to make room for her, sure, but they were all too young to hold grudges, right? And when she was young, she'd been stuck in Padraig's room for a few short years, to separate the twins and get them used to the fact that Padraig was a boy and Heather was a girl.

But that shouldn't be held against her. The twins roomed for a majority of their lives, regardless of Flynn. And they're 18, completely and utterly capable of being mature young adults…

Flynn let out a small sigh, as the twins noisily bounded out of their room and into hers. Before they could pounce on Flynn and tickle her awake, she blearily sat up.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," she informed them, one hand waving them away, the other rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Awwww," Heather whined.

"How'd you wake up, Flynn?" asked Padraig with a pout.

"You're all loud," she muttered. "Hard to sleep through all of your noise…"

But, of course, she was ignored. The twins were already turning their attention to Davita, who was fussing both over them.

"Oh, it's your last Reaping! You should both wear something more presentable— it's not every day that you'll be attending your last Reaping, you know," Davita chided them, as she tried straightening both of their clothes.

Flynn gave a small snort. The twins were sporting identical jeans and t-shirts; definitely not their Reaping best.

"Now, go back and change! We've still got time, and Flynn needs to get ready, too," the eldest girl ordered, bodily shoving the 18 year olds out of her room.

"Ma left your Reaping dress on the desk. I'm going to nab the bathroom, 'kay?" Davita told the younger girl languidly, exiting the room before Flynn could even get a word in edge-wise. Flynn gave a sigh, although she wasn't surprised at her older sister's actions.

Properly locking the door, Flynn began to change out of her very childish pajamas and into her sundress. It was a very simple dress, a muted orange color. She quickly brushed out her dark hair, deciding to just leave it in its usual style, and dug in her desk for her necklace.

Flynn grinned when she found the necklace of beads. It was a gift her friend Acelynn gave to their group of friends. Friendship necklaces, Ace called them. The quartet of friends always wore the necklaces. It physically represented their tight bond, showed that despite how different the four were, they were always great friends.

When they received them, Theodore had humorously noted that they were so girly-looking, it would help keep away the swarms of girls away from him and Jake. Jake had merely flipped his dirty-blonde hair, and noted cheekily that only Flynn and Ace would ever convince him to wear jewelry. Flynn had smiled so hard, she almost burst, and cherished the necklace.

To Flynn, the necklace showed that, to her friends, she wasn't merely the baby sister. She wasn't just the sibling that always lived in her older sibling's shadows, the ignored pushover.

Flynn wore the necklace proudly and boldly, even when she trailed behind her family as they entered the Town Square. And when she met up with her friends, she saw that each of them wore theirs boldly as well—each of them being equal, none overshadowing the others.

This knowledge helped quiet the self-loathing whispers in the back of her mind.


Tomoki 'Animal' Seshat, 18, District 7

The people of District Seven were bustling about, amidst a thick, high-strung tension. Children were hushed, people spoke in low tones, and everyone walked carefully with stiff postures as they dragged their feet.

One boy was perched imperiously in the high branches of an olden oak, able to observe all those who went about their business. His face was in a sneer, his dark eyes beady, barely seen beneath his messy mop of hair.

But no one was looking at him. His small body was hidden amidst the branches, as he stuck to the shadows.

He wasn't sure if he preferred people ignoring him. It was either their dismissal, or their bullying. His narcissism would rather they pay attention to him despite the humiliation, but his pride would rather he stay hidden amidst shadows and leaves.

The boy stood up stealthily, balanced perfectly, as his eyes swept across the area. He could see the entire 'burrow' of houses, from his vacant point, all the buildings familiar from his childhood. His eyes slowly slid over to the one most familiar to him, and he scowled darkly.

His former home. Before his parents decided that he was too weak and unimportant to be their son, and kicked him out.

You're tearing this family apart, they'd said. You're violent and a delinquent. You have to learn that your actions have consequences, Tomoki!

But they didn't understand. Never have. It was their failure in parenting that caused him to morph into a beast. They belittled him as everyone else, deeming him weak, said that he would amount to nothing.

Weak. The boy bared his teeth in a fierce snarl. A moniker given to him by just about everyone, since he could remember. His classmates, his fellow Reaping-age teens, his bullies, his siblings, his parents.

And fuck it if that didn't push him off the edge—the fact that his own damn parents thought he was useless.

His siblings? Fuck, they'd instilled paranoia and loathing in him since he could walk. They were almost as bad as the damn punks that beat the shit out of him. They usually didn't beat the snot out of him (usually, because his asshole of a brother Hiroki broke his arm too many times to be deemed an accident) but they could be worse.

Because he used to fucking live with Hiroki and Amaya, so that meant that they could jeer and shove him in the shadows as many damn times as they pleased, and his parents wouldn't say anything because oh, Hiroki and Amaya are such wonderful, wonderful children, they're so smart and strong, and, oh Tomoki, why can't you be anything like your siblings?

The rage bubbled and boiled, blood coursing through his body, screaming at him to destroy something at that very second. But he had to wait, until the time was right.

So he settled with voicing his disgust. "Fuck them," he hissed, voiced hoarse and full of utter loathing as he stared holes at his prior home. "It's better that I'm not living with them."

But he couldn't take his stare off of his damn house—former house. He could just imagine what his family was doing right now.

Hessian and Haruka Seshat would both be pushing to get his siblings ready, and his mother would also juggle with making breakfast. Some hashed potatoes, with a side of plain rice, and possibly a slice of home-baked nutty bread.

Then Hiroki would be chatting loudly with his father at the table, complaining that Amaya was taking too long getting ready. His mother would try calming him, and somehow manage. Then Amaya would calmly sit down, ignore her older brother, and help their mother with the dishes.

The boy blinked his eyes furiously. Out of irritation, because the burning in his eyes wouldn't be anything else. Any other emotion would make him seem like a pansy.

And, oh fuck, was that something in his eye? Yeah, probably. The short teen roughly rubbed at his eyes, before squinting them down below him at the sight of his family exiting the front door of their home.

The boy watched the four figures closely, his sights following their every move. His short mother, with her smooth features, was patiently straightening Amaya's skirt. His siblings still towered over the woman. Hiroki still strut around like he owned the damn world.

"So, nothing's fucking changed," he murmured, watching his family until they left his line of sight. They looked better, without him dragging himself bitterly behind them, he noted scathingly. Like a fucking picture-perfect family.

Silently, with blank eyes, the boy watched as the other families trickled out of their homes as the minutes ticked by. The time of the Reaping was looming ever closer.

Finally, when it was down to about fifteen minutes until the Reaping would start, the boy scaled down the tree with lithe movements. Once his tiny feet touched the ground, a predatory, excited grin split his smooth face.

Now that they were gone, he could wreck mayhem across all of these homes, and no one could stop him. All the Peacekeepers would be too occupied at the town square to run out to the sounds of destruction.

The boy bared his teeth, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, as he stalked the streets. His head constantly swiveled around, trying to find the perfect item to start the cacophony of chaos.

There, twenty yards in front of him, to the right. A rock, about the size of a half-loaf of bread.

Strutting over, the teen picked up the rock, weighing it in his hands. With a pleased chuckle, he strode over to the nearest house, and started to bash at the windows with it.

He moved quickly. From home to home, he threw their trash about, broke their windows, wrote on their walls.

He took out all his anger on these quiet, empty homes. In revenge for his constant humiliation. In revenge for always being belittled and dismissed. As payback, for all these people having such perfect and loving families that actually gave a fuck about each other.

And on each home—in big, bold letters—he painted his name with precise, practiced strokes with his spray can.

He spelled his name. His new name. Because he wasn't stupid enough to spell T.O.M.O.K.I upon the places he vandalized. And Tomoki Seshat was synonymous with weak and hopeless and delinquent and loser.

He'd always been the weakling, the little guy, the one people easily crush. He likes power and control, because he himself has never had any. So when was kicked from his home a few weeks prior, he attempted to destroy the old person he had been, picking up a new identity.

His new moniker was much more powerful than his original name.

A.N.I.M.A.L.

And it worked. Because his new alias—Animal—is powerful and commands attention. It's why he's been able to get away with the vandalism, and with the humiliation of others in the District. Animal the Vandal was a mystery that caused chaos and destruction, a force that could strike at any moment.

A.N.I.M.A.L allowed him to make his revenge complete and utter reality. ANIMAL was a name feared and respected.

Animal gave a long, dry cackle, as he noted all the destruction. With a pleased smirk, he chucked his weapon into a random window, clapped the dirt from his hands, and quickly darted towards the Reaping.

He was going to show them all to fear him. Because Animal was going to destroy everyone, and win the Hunger Games.


Azrael Rachaye, 17, District 9

District Nine slowly awoke, its citizens lazily getting ready for the upcoming ceremony. They needn't rush; after all, their District was the last third to have their Reaping, so their ceremony started much later than Districts One through Eight.

Although, there were many teens that were miserable with the event looming over their heads, and would rather get it over with. The wait was stifling— and so would be the heat, when it was finally time for the event.

One such boy—who wished drearily for the Reaping to just come and happen already— had hid himself in a dank, dirty stall in the corner of the boy's bathroom at the orphanage. The stall was out of order, and held a busted light at the top, so no one really used it.

The teen sat there, face crumpled, thoughts darkening with each passing second.

Outsider Filth. Loser. Unwanted. Psychopath. Killer.

Those are terms that Azrael's been called since he was 8. A box of decisions from society that he just couldn't escape, no matter what he did. No matter how nice he was, or how hard he tried to prove everyone wrong.

It's one thing to be shunned by one person. But to be alienated by an entire District is crushing. It's like the weight of a boulder. No matter where he goes, everything condenses and pushes, squeezing and crushing him.

Azrael blames his father for this. For everything.

It had started years ago, when his memories were filled with laughter and the smell of honey wheat. Women would go missing every month or so, and show up dead later. Along with specific rich folk— but that phenomena had stopped ever since Victor Niveus Blackburn returned to the District.

Back then, everyone was in a throw of terror, wondering who would be the next victim. The Peacekeepers were restless, whipping people left and right, but they came up with no concrete answers. Paranoia had settled like a shadow over the District, further hunching people's tired shoulders.

Azrael and his younger sister Kael were positive like their mother, Amayne. But that didn't last for long.

The Peacekeepers had busted into the Rachaye home one fateful, dreary day. No warning, no noise. They marched in, arresting his father, before quickly taking off again. After Cassis Rachaye was arrested and imprisoned, the man confessed to doing it all, despite the Rachaye family's disbelief.

And the Peacekeepers believed it. Everyone did. Because no one had any indiscriminating, pure evidence on anyone else doing these crimes.

Azrael took in a long, shaky breath. His body trembled, but his hands were oddly steady as he pressed the small blade to the pale skin of his upper arm.

He watched blankly at how his old scars opened anew. Watching as the bright red blood slowly bloomed from the shallow cut. And, like always, he didn't feel a thing. He was too hollow to feel physical pain.

It wasn't long after, when the glares started, then the accusations…then the isolation. The District was disgusted with Cassis Rachaye, and his family by association. Even though they hadn't known that their loving husband and father was a serial killer, a disturbed man with an insatiable desire for blood.

The three were corralled by the Peacekeepers and questioned, just a few weeks after Cassis's disappearance. It was brutal, more torture and interrogation than a simple questioning. But they truly had no information over Cassis's previous activities, so they'd been let go.

But it was too much. The accumulation of cruelty from both the Peacekeepers and the regular citizens was too much for his poor, sweet mother. She hung herself within the year, leaving him and Kael to the orphanage.

Azrael dug the blade into his shoulder, making tally marks of the years that Amayne Rachael had been dead. Onetwothreefourfivesixseven—Eight.

Nobody saw Azrael as a child, not with his father's heinous crimes hanging over his head like a thick fog. Not when he looked like the exact spitting image of his father.

Azrael was like a walking, breathing, talking reminder to Nine. At least Victor Niveus Blackburn had quarantined himself to the Victor's Village. But everyone was stuck with this orphan who was a ticking time bomb, the next expected serial killer.

His classmates either shunned him or bullied him, adults ignored him, friends abandoned him.

Kael had clung to him as much as she could, wanting comfort from her big brother, and wanting to comfort him from the crushing despair. She was the best part of his life, the light in the stifling darkness.

But they even took his sister from him. Decided when she was ten and he was thirteen, that she needed to be taken away from his influence. The adults bodily ripped her from his grasp while they both screamed and cried themselves hoarse.

All he knew was that she was 'in a nice family, on the opposite side of the District'. That's all they told him. He hasn't seen her since. He doesn't even know if she's named Kael anymore—or healthy, happy, alive.

Azrael deftly rolled up the left leg of his pants, head sunk low. Looking down with tired, dead eyes, he took his blade and started to lightly carve into the flesh just below his knee.

People pretended nothing was wrong; that he wasn't suffering. Even when he hung back, in the shadows, with a gaunt complexion. Even when he flinched from any type of movement towards him, any touch. Even when the scars covering his arms and legs were blatantly left out in the open.

And nobody cared.

With a long breath, Azrael slumped back against the grimy tile of the bathroom. He listlessly spread his limbs out, blood still oozing from the angry marks. He stared up at the cracked ceiling, trying to fight the hot tears that slid down his twisted face.

He could count on one hand, the number of people that seemingly cared. One hand for anyone that was nice to him.

As he studied the blade in his hands, wondering where else he should start cutting, he remembered something.

Yesterday, after the last school bell. A girl his height, with red-blonde hair. Liseli, he was sure she was called. They bumped into each other, and she talked to him.

Liseli clapped his shoulder. "Hang in there. Good luck with tomorrow. You're gonna need it."

The edge of his mouth pulled upwards, and the tears stopped. It's been four years—since Kael was taken away—since he'd had someone to wish him luck for the Reapings.

It was…nice. Refreshing.

And it gave him the strength to stop hurting himself further. To get off the dank, smelly floor. To wipe his face. To wash his cuts. To ready himself for the Reaping, and put on his best. To block out the cruel glares and jibes. To put one foot in front of the other, and walk all the way down to the town Square.

Azrael stood in line to sign in. When it was his turn, he strode forwards, giving a weak, polite grin to the Peacekeeper at the desk. The woman glared at him, roughly taking his proffered hand to stab at his finger, drawing blood. But he didn't react at all to it, didn't feel the pain.

He shuffled his way into the Square, going off into the roped-off pen for the 17 year old males. He stood at a back edge, eyes looking every which way at the filling area.

He caught a sight of familiar red-blonde hair, and stared. He hadn't noted it before, but Liseli had long, straight hair. It was pretty; the color of the sky during a sunset. Against the white blouse she wore, it was like a river of soft, shimmery flames was painted across a canvas.

If it weren't for the Escort calling for their attention, he wouldn't have taken his eyes off of her.


Cerium Morgan, 16, District 5

Cerium was a naturally optimistic person. While the entire District seemed nervous and downtrodden about the looming Reaping, she tried keeping positive.

Sure, her doing so was a bit naïve, but it was ultimately better to see the good of any situation. Because then, the good parts would help you get through the bad, acting as something you could cling to in dire times.

So with that uplifting disposition, Cerium readied herself for the Reaping. She chatted with her family at the table as they slowly ate their breakfast, trying to dispel the tension.

"Cerium, your babbling isn't going to put us at ease," snapped her mother, Lydia. The girl snapped her mouth closed, picking at her toast meekly.

"Honey," murmured Stefan Morgan at his wife, eyebrows creased. He pat his daughter on the head, as if she was still 6, knowing how sensitive his daughter was. "We're sorry, Cerium. The Reaping's just a tense affair," he told her, giving her a small, tight smile.

"I know it's my last Reaping, but I'll be fine," Cerium's brother spoke up, voice dry. "Although, I don't mind Cerium shutting up…"

The girl shot him a look, which turned into a glare when Bromine ruffled her hair roughly. She bat her older brother's hand away, trying to straighten her auburn hair again, even though it was naturally wavy and skewed.

"Bromine, stop teasing your sister. She's spent time and effort on her appearance, and you shouldn't ruin her hard work," intoned their mother, giving a pointed look at her son over her cup of tea.

Cerium, however, caught her mother's compliment. She beamed, straightening up proudly in her chair. Cerium had worried over her appearance—specifically, her hair—so the reassurance was nice.

Her mother had bought her a new dress from the second-hand store, for this Reaping. It was an old-fashioned model of dress— button-up with a rounded collar, showing how old it was—but it was still in good condition. Cerium was enamored with it—the teal color was still strong and pretty, and it held these cute little short sleeves on it that were different from all the dresses with straps or puffy sleeves.

After that, breakfast was a bit less tense. But Bromine still pestered and snarked at her—such stereotypical big brother behavior. It made her miss her older sister, Indium. Indium had moved away from home to study biochemistry at one of the District's various research-facilities-that-totally-didn't-exist.

Yeah, right. It was amusing how the Capitol pretended that science wasn't a huge part of District Five, when it was just so…Blatantly there.

Anyways, she was happy for the opportunity her sister had, she honestly was! But Cerium still missed her dearly. Indium had been away from home for about four months now, and Cerium craved for her hugs and advice.

But she tried to dispel the gloom of those thoughts. Her sister had an important, well-paying profession that she enjoyed. It was the best possible option for Indium.

Cerium grinned when her family left their home, intent on trying to trudge through the next hour with as much pep she possessed. As they neared the Square, passing by various houses and shops in the downtown part of the District, she spotted a familiar mop of curly-blonde hair close to the Registration desks.

"Andie, hey!" she called out to her friend. The lanky boy was off to the side, hunched over, and jumped at her sudden exclamation.

Cerium slowly walked towards Andie, allowing him to find her, before she accidentally spooked him again. He didn't like it when his friends suddenly popped in front of him. He freaked out over the smallest things, and was a worrywart, and probably had some type of social disorder—a bad mix, even worse to have during such an event like the Reaping.

"O-Oh, Cerium, hey," Andie said weakly, giving her a quavering smile, hands shaking as he fiddled with his fingers. He looked very pale, and was darting his green eyes constantly over to the check-in desk that held the Peacekeepers.

Cerium gave him a comforting smile, and took his arm, guiding him to the line for Registration. She talked to him to take his attention away from the intimidating people in pristine white armor, and the needle-device that would prick their fingers.

Before long, they were at the front, and got signed in. Cerium managed to stay by Andie's side, and helped keep him from completely freaking out over being poked by a needle. She gently herded him towards the 16 year old female section, despite his quiet protests.

"When it gets closer to the start, you can just walk over to the boy's pen," Cerium told him soothingly. "See—other guys are mingling in here too, so you're not the only one. You'll be fine."

Andie relaxed, giving a small grin down at her, before the duo was faced with their two other friends.

"Good, you two didn't get lost," Deryn said quietly, her hazel eyes twinkling in mirth. Cerium and Kendal laughed, whilst Andie rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Maybe I should invent Andie a super-special compass to help him find his way?" Kendal suggested, tilting her head, wolfish grin on her face.

The boy of the group frowned down at the petite girl who held a penchant for tinkering with things. "Maybe you should invent something that will actually get commissioned and distributed," he told her dryly.

"Put some water on that sick burn, Kendal—I think Andie out-sassed you," Deryn intoned in her usual reserved voice. Kendal gave a swat at the girl's hair, causing the dirty-blonde strands to shift from their prior perfectly straight position.

"Now, now," Cerium started, ready to put all her friends at ease, and smooth things over. "Andie— you've been improving when it comes to large groups, but it's understandable that at the Reaping you'd be nervous. Kendal—you're too ambitious to not invent something great, one day."

Finally, Cerium turned to Deryn, the group's token-quiet friend. She cocked her head to the side, unsure what wise wisdom to impart on her.

"Deryn—keep staying golden," she told the blonde-haired girl simply, who gave her a small, bemused smile.

"I'm not dyeing my hair any time soon…" Deryn intoned, giving a small snigger. The group laughed, tension slowly ebbing from them.

But it came back full-force, once a screech of a microphone echoed across the area. It looks like the Escort was testing the microphone.

Andie face fell, twisting, making him look like he had indigestion. He quickly bid his three friends farewell, ducking down, and darted towards his proper section.

"Well, at least he won't get in trouble," Cerium thought, trying to find the silver lining in the situation. It was a bit hard, with how queasy she suddenly felt, the situation finally crashing down on her.


Hastiin Tsoh, 14, District 11

Most people in District Eleven were out working in the fields, at this time, despite the event that was taking place today. The Peacekeepers of Eleven were very strict; even if the Reaping in most other Districts was a mandatory event, they still forced at least half the District to keep working during this day.

Eleven was one of the largest Districts, and was very vital for all of Panem. They were the Agriculture District—they essentially grew the food for the entire nation. Sure, Nine provided the grain, Four caught fish, and Ten produced the meats—but as it stood, Eleven produced the highest quota of food, more than those three Districts combined.

Eleven just simply wasn't allowed to be able to take holidays, no matter the reason. Production was important, and stopping an entire industry for just one day was detrimental and a waste.

So, a majority of Eleven was forced to still work for today. The only ones that had the day off were the children of Reaping age, for obvious reasons. The rest of the Square would be filled with those workers and parents and such that were literally lucky enough to be given the day off. That, or those who were unable to work for some reason; those who didn't matter, who wouldn't be detrimental to production.

Hastiin knew this—the reasoning behind his parents, and so many others, having to work out in the fields and orchards, despite the Reaping.

Whilst other children were heartbroken over their loved ones being unable to escort them to the Reaping, or be there in the crowds for emotional support, Hastiin understood. He didn't fuss or whine, nor did he plead or cry, nor put his hopes in being able to 'convince' his parents to drop everything they were doing for him.

Hastiin barely turned 14—and a rare only child, never knowing the responsibility of looking out for siblings—but he wasn't naïve or stupid. He didn't react negatively to his parents telling him that morning that they still had to go out and work in the fields. He simply nodded, giving them both tight hugs, wishing them luck with work and assuring them that he'd get to the Square fine.

Bidziil and Kai Tsoh, after all, were the nice sort of people that would never abandon their child, unless they had to. The strict policies weren't their fault at all.

Didn't mean that any of them would like it, though. Once Hastiin was left alone in his little shack of a home, he muttered darkly about how utterly horrible the Capitol was, making the citizens slave away.

Hastiin was understanding, but he was also snide and passionate in his dislike for the Capitol. He was just cautious, stoic, and introverted enough that this never caused him any backlash.

And he never talked about his Rebellious behavior to his parents. Keeping quiet doesn't have the possibility of the Peacekeepers finding out and killing him and/or his parents. Getting killed was a very strong outcome, if the Peacekeepers learned that all the traps that sprouted up around their headquarters and pit-stops were created by him.

Hastiin prided himself in his intuitiveness and strong grasp in common sense. And the outcome of him opening up about his little Rebel stints to anyone was incredibly undesirable. He'd rather keep his parents naïvely innocent and alive, thanks.

Hastiin's muttered anti-Capitol sentiments under his breath whilst changing into his clothes for the Reaping. He checked himself in the dirty, cracked mirror in his parent's room. He was glad that he chose to wear the white, collared shirt his father let him borrow—if he wore any other shirt, the sweat stains would be more visible.

"We're all going to be sweating like pigs," Hastiin noted dryly. He sighed, cursing the mid-day heat aloud.

The temperature in Eleven was always warm, but currently, the heat was unbearably stifling. It always got this way, at this time of time of day—and yet, this was the hour the Reapings took place, every single year.

The earlier Districts were lucky. They had to wake up earlier, but they had a more bearable hour of the day to have their Reapings.

Hastiin exited his home to the sun beating down strongly on him. He squinted, bringing up an arm to cover his eyes, and started walking towards the Square. It was a very long, dry, boring trek. It didn't help that he was quiet, wasn't up for social interaction, and only had one friend—who didn't even live in this part of the District.

He, and other Reaping-age children, trudged down the dirt paths. Past the shantyhouses, the fields, the orchards, the Peacekeeper outposts…Until they were finally stepping onto the paved roads that led into the dingy town that would hold the Reapings.

And, because the Square was currently being used for the ceremony, the outskirts of the town temporarily held the stocks and whipping posts. Even though today was supposed to be a holiday, the Peacekeepers were punishing people all the same.

Hastiin scrunched up his face as he passed, forcing himself to stiffly put one foot in front of the other. He was shoved forwards when he froze in the middle of the trek, staring wide-eyed at a little 11 year old boy getting whipped.

Hastiin's tanned face paled as he stared, imagining the little boy being replaced by his very close, very dead friend from a few years ago.

He robotically walked forwards, ghosting passed the whipping posts, as he remembered the day the Peacekeepers whipped his childhood friend to death. He could still visualize the crumpled and broken body of Jay— so, so tiny and fragile and dead compared to the towering Peacekeeper.

Hastiin was barely 12. Jay was still 11. Jay didn't deserve to die via public whipping. Hastiin didn't deserve to watch his best friend die in front of his very eyes, helpless.

Hastiin clenched his fists tightly, his nails painfully digging in his palms. He tried to calm himself through deep, even breaths.

Jay's death still haunted him. Every time Hastiin saw a young boy getting punished, he couldn't help but imagine Jay's death. And every time he was reminded by the injustice, it lit and spurred a Rebellious fire within him.

Eventually, he finally got to the heart of the town. Hastiin took in his surroundings, amongst the throng of sweat-drenched teenagers, as he meandered his way towards the Registration desks. The Square was already packed with children. His group had to push and shove their way through all the adults that were loitering in the streets.

Hastiin silently stood in one of the sign-in lines. When it was his turn, he stiffly stepped forwards, extending his hand stoically. When his blood was drawn, he gave a tiny, curt nod to the Peacekeeper at the desk, and made his way towards his section.

It wasn't easy. Everyone was tightly packed, and Hastiin was pretty short. Sure, he was fit from work, but it was still a bitch to shove his way through all the roped sections to get to the 14 year old male pen.

It also took a bit of maneuvering to find his friend Myrt—but at least the friendly boy was at edges of the pack. With a final grunt, Hastiin stumbled in place next to the tiny, underfed boy.

"Hey, Hastiin!" Myrt greeted brightly, grinning. The boy looked like he was drowning in his own sweat.

"Hey," he said politely, giving a grin down at the boy—who was even shorter than him. "Been here long?"

"Nope, thankfully," the other boy noted, giving a tinkling laugh. "But our Escort has. He looks like he could go swimming in his sweat."

Hastiin looked up at the stage, easily finding the ridiculous visage of Sushi Diver, District Eleven's Escort from the Capitol. The man looked murderous, complaining loudly to the Mayor, gesticulating wildly at his sweat-soaked clothing.

"At least he didn't wear his asinine cape this year," Hastiin noted dryly, feeling smug at the man's discomfort.

Last year, the Capitolite had worn some ridiculous, large, scale-like cape. It was obvious that the cape draped on him had been causing him to sweat incredible amounts. Last year, mid-Reaping, the man ripped the cape off and threw it to the side of the stage in a fit, cursing loudly and screeching about the heat.

This year, the man was stupid enough to wear black slacks and an oddly puffy, long-sleeved shirt. However, he had unbuttoned the shirt fully, showing his pale, scrawny abdomen. A vivid blue sash was tied around his waist—most likely to make up for the fact that he wasn't wearing his cape this year.

Sushi Diver's ridiculousness made the entire Reaping seem much less intimidating—at least, to Hastiin. He felt oddly at ease, whilst the rest of the teens seemed to be buzzing with worry.

No, ease wasn't the right word. He felt energy in his veins, felt like he should be doing something. He wasn't worried about the Reaping, but also didn't like just standing there like a complacent sheep.

And in that instant, Hastiin knew. He knew what he was feeling, and what he wanted to do.

He would be the only one willing enough to do it. To do something worthwhile.

Because how many teenagers actually attempted to use the resources given to them to create a way to fight the system, from the inside…?